Clare moves to the corner of it.  An artist in observation of his clients, Arnaud takes in her face—­very pale under her wavy, simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at her breast three gardenias.  And as he nears her, she lifts her eyes.  It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for guidance.

Arnaud.  Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then Madame will be veree well here—­veree well.  I take Madame’s cloak?

     He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair
     fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she
     wishes.  She sits down.

Languid voice. [From the corner] Waiter!

Arnaud.  Milord!

Languid voice.  The Roederer.

Arnaud.  At once, Milord.

     Clare sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her
     eyes lowered.  Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD’s dark
     rapid figure.

Arnaud. [Returning] Madame feels the ’eat? [He scans her with increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?

Clare. [Again giving him that look] Must I order?

Arnaud.  Non, Madame, it is not necessary.  A glass of water. [He pours it out] I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame’s face.

Clare. [Faintly smiling] No.

Arnaud.  Madame will find it veree good ’ere, veree quiet.

Languid voice.  Waiter!

Arnaud.  Pardon! [He goes]

The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in:  “Tottie!  Not she!  Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!” “Bobbie’ll never stick it!” “Look here, dear——­” Galvanized by those sounds, Clare has caught her cloak and half-risen; they die away and she subsides.

Arnaud. [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule—­not as in some places.  To-night a little noise.  Madame is fond of flowers? [He whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from some table in the next room] These smell good!

Clare.  You are very kind.

Arnaud. [With courtesy] Not at all, Madame; a pleasure. [He bows]

A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped, sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the corridor.  He looks round, glances at Clare, passes her table